Together
by volner
Summary: John stared mouth agape at Sherlock for what felt like years, drinking in the sight of his flatmate looking nonchalant in the sitting room as though he had never left. Never died. Yes, the man in front of John was very much not dead. And that was beautiful. (This took me so long to write that I had to change the title and first paragraphs a bit. My apologies.)
1. Chapter 1

It was the weekend, and John Watson hated the weekend more than any man in London. He had nothing to distract him when he wasn't in the surgery, so he spent the majority of his time lazing around the flat, drinking an inordinate amount of tea and trying not to think. The rest of his time he spent avoiding Mrs. Hudson and her overwhelming cheerfulness. In the past week, she had taken up the habit of bringing John baskets of biscuits in an effort to brighten his spirits, saying that he shouldn't be so down because it wasn't what _he_ would want. John wasn't having any of it. Other than the cookies. He very much liked the cookies.

But why should John care what Mrs. Hudson's sensitively-phrased _he_ would have wanted anyway? Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes had gone and left him alone, and now he had no say in how army doctor John Watson lived his life. And as much as John told himself that, it could never be true. It had been more than two years since the incident at St. Bart's, and John had still failed to move on with his life. A sense of Sherlock's presence – even in his long absence – anchored John to 221B; Mrs. Hudson perceived this and allowed John to remain even though he could still only afford to pay his half of the rent.

John still thought of him, had left his things in the flat largely untouched – with the obvious exception of perishable human body parts that he had to throw out. Even ridding himself of those had given John an inexplicable nostalgia. Well not inexplicable, not really. John knew now what he felt for Sherlock, the depth of his feelings, but he avoided thinking about them because there was no point anymore.

John sighed, gathered his belongings, and headed out of the flat for the first time all day.

* * *

He squared his shoulders and drew in a ragged breath as he approached the familiar headstone. John sometimes wondered if one could ever get used to seeing his best friend's name on a slab, if he would ever become used to the idea that they would never see each other again. So far, the adage that 'time heals all wounds' had proven devastatingly wrong. Moriarty had vowed to burn the heart out of Sherlock, but John often felt that he had gotten the short end of the stick. It was John who had been left to struggle through the world without his heart.

He gathered his resolve and walked up beside the headstone, standing to the side rather than in front, squaring his shoulders in his typical military fashion, and placing one hand on the cold surface. After that first day, John had not stood directly in front of Sherlock's tombstone again. Knowing he was buried beneath his feet, it felt too much like he was standing on his friend's face while visiting him. Never mind sitting down. John Watson sitting on Sherlock's face – people might talk. John gave a tight-lipped smile at the memory and then shivered – whether from the knowledge that no such memory could repeat itself or from the winter chill he couldn't say.

"Right then. Onto business, Sherlock." John recognized how ridiculous Sherlock would find it that he spoke to his gravesite as though he could hear John's words. They had never discussed religion, but Sherlock was certainly not one to believe in life after death. That would be irrational. Even if there were some continued existence, John imagined Sherlock would soon be bored out of his mind from being dead with nothing to do and nothing useful to deduce.

"So. I brought you what I promised at my last visit. Something to stop you being bored. Just about the only gift you would find acceptable in death, I imagine. These are Lestrade's unsolved cases for the past month; I grabbed the lot so you can pick out the interesting ones. It wasn't easy to get these either, so you'd better appreciate them, Sherlock."

John nodded to signal the end of his speech, turned on his heel, and marched away, keeping with his habitual formality in the cemetery.

Walking home, he thought back to the initial weeks after Sherlock's death. Sure, he had been distraught at first, but about a week later he had convinced himself that Sherlock faked his death somehow. There was just no way a genius of Sherlock's caliber could lose, even to Moriarty, much less kill himself; John was sure of it. He had spent weeks searching for clues feverishly, and even after his therapist said it was nothing more than denial, even when he found no hints as to how Sherlock had faked it or what his whereabouts were, he had spent the next year waiting for a message from Sherlock. He jumped at every text, every sound in the flat, hoping Sherlock had returned. But he hadn't. He didn't.

* * *

John made his way back to 221B slowly, not looking forward to the emptiness of the flat. He opened the door and steeled himself for the familiar wave of sadness that inevitably washed over him every time he recalled the loss of his flatmate. There it is. The wall of emotion hit him harder than usual, probably because he had just been at the cemetery.

John blinked against the tears threatening to form in his eyes – he never cried at the graveyard on the off chance Sherlock really was looking down on him somewhere and could see – and staggered into the kitchen to make himself a cuppa, but he stopped short upon seeing a note taped to the kettle. Scrawled in small black writing were the words "Never could come into the flat without going straight for tea, could you, John? You really should learn to be more observant. –SH."

In that moment, despite the medical impossibility, Dr. John Watson could have sworn he felt his heart stop.

He turned to face the flat and there, perched in his usual chair and cleaning the bow of his violin, sat Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

John stared mouth agape at Sherlock for what felt like years, drinking in the sight of his flatmate looking nonchalant in the sitting room as though he had never left. Never died. Yes, the man in front of John was very much not dead. And that was beautiful.

"Sher-" John swallowed around a lump in his throat and began again. "Sherlock?" His voice shook, not with anger but with desperation. Hope, sure. Joy, of course. But mostly, John Watson was desperate to confirm that the lanky man before him was real, not an apparition or a hallucination or whatever the hell else appears to men who miss a loved one so much it physically hurts to go on living without them.

"John," came the reply. It felt as though the word pierced John to his very soul, Sherlock's deep voice rumbling forth that one syllable in an all too familiar way. John had been sure only minutes ago that he would never have the privilege of hearing it again, and now Sherlock sat in the flat, speaking and staring and _breathing_ and it was too much to take in.

John's hand shook and his breath caught in his chest. His vision tunneled until Sherlock – blessedly alive Sherlock Holmes – was all he could see. And then he saw nothing as he felt the world tilt up to meet him.

John opened his eyes to find Sherlock crouched beside him, one hand gripping his shoulder firmly and the other cupping his cheek. Fighting the urge to lean into the touch, John pushed Sherlock's hands away and hauled himself to his feet with some difficulty.

Oh god. That did not just happen. John Hamish Watson was a soldier. One who does not faint, no matter the shock. He certainly doesn't swoon like a lovesick damsel in an eighteenth-century novel of sensibility. But he did.

"All right?" Sherlock asked him, worry etched in his brow. His gaze scanned John from head to toe, no doubt cataloging and deducing every detail of his life since their last meeting.

John struggled to find words. Ignoring his fainting spell, he said, "You jumped… I saw… You were dead." And at Sherlock's rather condescending look, John added, "You faked your own death."

"Yes."

"It's been nearly three years."

"I see your ability to state the obvious has not dulled in our time apart," Sherlock deadpanned.

John supposed Sherlock was making a weak attempt to cut the tension. Sherlock was trying to act normal. John didn't care. He responded in the only way which seemed fitting for the circumstances.

He reeled back his arm and punched Sherlock right in the face.

The force of the punch had Sherlock careening backwards, struggling to maintain his footing – and failing. He found himself rather unceremoniously slumped on the sofa, one hand instinctively held to his eye, the other held out towards John defensively.

But as Sherlock looked up from the couch, he saw that there was no reason to remain on the defensive.

In the time it took for Sherlock to recover from the blow to his face, John had retreated a few paces and was staring at Sherlock, who took the opportunity to observe: Jaw clenched [angry], face unshaven [single], eyes glassy [fighting tears, of joy or sadness?], dark circles under eyes [lack of sleep, nightmares?], arms crossed [defensive, angry, uninviting].

Sherlock filed this all away and got to his feet slowly, wary that John was liable to hit him again. Or cry. Or run. Or some combination thereof.

And truth be told, John wanted to do all of these. God, he wanted so much to punch Sherlock again for what he had put him through, to cry with the memory of his loss and the overwhelming relief of his return, and more than anything he wanted to run. Because betraying the depth of his emotions to Sherlock Holmes did not strike John as the best idea. He wanted to stalk off in a huff, partly because he was angry at being left behind, thinking his best friend dead – of course he was angry. But mostly he wanted to run because it was suddenly all too much. Seeing Sherlock, back from the grave and looking at him with increasing concern as he stared and fidgeted and tried to decide what to do.

John couldn't run though. He found that he couldn't even turn his back to Sherlock without fear that he would no longer be there when he turned to face him again. So instead he swallowed around the growing lump in his throat and grabbed Sherlock by the forearm – trying not to revel too much in the familiar feel of his coat, which John knew was not the one from three years ago because that coat lay folded on John's bed, right where his pillow used to be – and pulled him towards the kitchen.

"Let's get some ice on that eye. Then we're going to talk. And you'd better have a damn good explanation," John said, sounding first like a doctor, then like a jilted lover, and finally like a soldier who had bad days.

Sherlock nodded, following John to the kitchen in silence and deciding it would be best not to provoke him further. As John got the ice, Sherlock noted the changes in the kitchen. No experiments, no body parts, dishes clean and presumably in their rightful spots in the cupboards. Boring. He then moved with some interest to a large box shoved into a corner of the counter; it was dusty, seemingly unused, and out of place in the otherwise immaculate kitchen.

He turned up the flaps of the box and found it stuffed with test tubes, beakers, and petri dishes. He just barely glimpsed his microscope buried beneath the rest of the science equipment.

"You kept it," Sherlock said, motioning to the box.

"I kept everything. Here," John added gruffly, avoiding eye contact and offering Sherlock some ice wrapped in a damp cloth.

Sherlock accepted it. His eye really was beginning to hurt.

John tugged Sherlock back to the sitting room, again relishing the solidity and warmth of Sherlock's arm beneath his hand, and pushed him onto the couch. He sat down beside him.

"Talk," he ordered.

And talk Sherlock did. He spoke of a scheme to blacken Sherlock's name and force his suicide, of imminent threat to his only friends, of a madman's final problem, of a complex plan to save his loved ones and himself by faking his death, of years spent hunting down the remaining strands of a spider's web, of a mission complete.

He did not speak of loneliness, of regret, of injuries, of relapses, because they would not help John.

He did not speak of forgiveness, because he feared its refusal.

Throughout his speech, John sat beside him in silence, occasionally interjecting an "Incredible" or a "Brilliant" where appropriate. But mostly he immersed himself in everything Sherlock Holmes.

He lost himself in the sight of his flatmate returned from the grave, in the sound of a voice he wanted nothing more than to listen to for the rest of his life, in the familiar smell of cologne or product or aftershave or whatever it was that mixed with his natural scent to make eau de Sherlock, in the pressure of another living body against his left shoulder and knee as he leaned in to listen to a tale that could only come from Sherlock.

Sherlock, alive and well.

John had made himself a promise, about two years ago. A nonsensical promise, really. There was no way it could ever be fulfilled.

But now there was.

He had promised that if he ever saw Sherlock again, he wouldn't waste a moment. He would tell him how he felt. But it hadn't mattered at the time. Sherlock was dead.

But now he wasn't.

So John leaned in, Sherlock still recounting the tale beside him, and silenced the detective by pressing their lips together with a feather's touch and pulling back, looking into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock sat very still. He looked at John. He deduced: Breathing rapid and shallow, cheeks flushed, pupils dilated [lust]; licking lips subtly [drawing attention to them, infatuation]; avoiding eye contact [nervousness, fear of rejection].

Like John, Sherlock had spent much of his time over the past three years thinking about his flatmate. Far more time than was healthy. And while he realized that his feelings were more than traditionally friendly, he had not decided on what they were. A bit too preoccupied with taking out Moriarty's web to worry about it. Sherlock had no comparison group for these matters. John was his best friend; he knew that much. But John was straight; he made that very clear on many occasions. And Sherlock was Sherlock; he didn't have time for relationships. Of course, that didn't mean that the thought of kissing John had never occurred to him. He had nearly done it on the post-case high on many occasions, had regretted not doing it for years.

And in the fraction of a second it took Sherlock's mind to cycle through these thoughts, he moved his lips to John's, reconnecting them. He enjoyed the connection, enjoyed being so close to John. The physical sensation wasn't bad either. He would later swear he felt the rush of dopamine and norepinephrine released by the contact.

For his part, John lost himself in the taste of his flatmates lips on his own, an entirely unfamiliar but perfectly welcome mixture of tea and sweetness and nicotine which he planned to lecture him about later.

This activity went on until John's lids grew heavy, weighed down by some combination of happiness and shock. The pair then decided to move to Sherlock's room without a word. Once there, they lay on their sides, facing each other, and Sherlock continued to recount the tale of his time away. Their fingertips brushed together in the space between them. Sherlock spoke rapidly but at a near whisper, and John allowed the sound to lull him to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

John wakes alone, desperately afraid of finding that the events of the previous night were a dream. He tries to suppress the hope swelling in his heart as he pads to the sitting room, and lets his breath out in relief at what he sees.

Sherlock sits on his chair with his impossibly long legs drawn up in front of him, his eyes closed and his hands moving invisible objects through the air. John leans against the doorframe and watches as Sherlock continues journeying through his mind palace, but quickly finds himself distracted by the way Sherlock's mouth opens slightly in thought. As if Sherlock's mere presence in the apartment weren't distracting enough. John steps forward without thinking and moves closer to Sherlock, who remains focused inwardly until he hears the familiar but long unheard sound of John settling into the armchair opposite him.

"John," murmurs Sherlock, as he snaps out of his mind palace and back into 221B, opening his eyes and meeting John's gaze.

"Sherlock," John returns. He cannot for the life of him think of what to say. What does one say when his best friend and flatmate returns from the dead? And after last night, John is even more flummoxed as to what the proper course of action is. He decides to stick with casual. "You know, Sherlock, your mind palace thing would look a bit strange to people who didn't know what you're doing."

John could swear he saw relief flash across Sherlock's face at the neutral conversation starter, but he wasn't quite sure. "Nonsense, John. The method of loci as a memory tool is perfectly valid and well known even to those too inept to employ it."

"Right, of course. Everyone knows about loci; my mistake." Sherlock's lips turn up into a smile at John's sarcasm, and the reaction encourages John to continue speaking. "So what was the trip to the mind palace for this time? Found a case already, have you?"

"Not quite a case. But I had to think. Gather evidence."

"Right," John says slowly. "About what?"

Sherlock looks at John intently before answering, the piercing stare from his impossibly-colored eyes making John squirm in his seat. "Our relationship," he replies after some consideration.

"What about our relationship?" John asks, slightly dreading the answer.

Sherlock levels his gaze at him. Well, about level as the gaze of someone with a black eye can be. "I am considering options and their likely outcomes so as to decide how we should proceed in regards to what passed between us last night."

"And you can just decide that alone? Don't need my input at all?" John clenches his jaw in obvious irritation.

"I've upset you."

"Brilliant deduction, that."

"I am merely trying to treat this issue rationally, John. Be reasonable." Sherlock sighs at the growing look of exasperation on John's face.

"This isn't about being rational, Sherlock," John begins, struggling to keep his voice level. "It's about feelings. Those don't work like a case. You can't figure out how a relationship will end before it begins. Not even you. Not with us."

"What, precisely, would you have me do instead?"

"Talk to me, for one. Maybe include me in a discussion. You going off on your own and making decisions that affect us both doesn't turn out well for either of us. Or have you forgotten that already?"

Sherlock's mouth twists in displeasure. He prods at his eye absently, looking away. When he looks back at John, it is with resignation. He cocks his head to the side, listening. John takes this as a sign to continue.

"Good," John begins. "First off, if we're going to do this – be in a relationship – you need to know it's not just about you. But I know you. It'll be on me to tell you how this works, what's a bit not good and what's downright wrong and what works and what doesn't. And some days it will be hard not to strangle you."

Sherlock looks somewhere between crestfallen and indignant.

"But," John continues, holding up a finger, "I won't – strangle you, that is – because I happen to know that it's a hell of a lot worse to be without you than it is to deal with you."

Sherlock smiles a sad smile at this. "I am sorry, John, for leaving you alone. If I had known how you felt –."

"You would have done it anyway. It's all right." He twines their fingers together. "Or it will be. You're here. We're here. Together. That matters more than what happened. We'll be fine."

Sherlock leans down to place a soft kiss atop John's head. "Yes, we will be fine. Together."


End file.
